


Home

by neil4god



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Emotional Stiles, Hale Family Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Momma stilinski feels, Stiles POV, Stiles is a Mess, Strong Derek, brain washing (memory altering), can be read as pre-sterek (cause i'm totally obsessed and that needs to happen dammit Jeff!), not cannon compliant, post season 3 - nogitsune but au after that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 04:42:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1927002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neil4god/pseuds/neil4god
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is falling apart, but this time it's different. He's not going crazy or being possessed, he's just remembering things that never happened. Or at least he hopes he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

He was losing bits of himself, remembering things that didn't belong to him, a life he never lived. It was unnerving, but given the circumstances it was probably normal-ish. The nogitsune had put him through the blender, so it wasn't too surprising that things were a little scrambled. His responses were completely messed up, instead of Scott and Dad, Stiles wanted Derek. There was this voice (ok not an actual voice - he's not crazy or being possessed again or anything like that), this voice in his head that screamed "Home" and "Safety" whenever Derek stopped by. It was like some switch had been flipped and now he needed Hale all the time. Things were better with him, quieter (probably because the guy barely spoke) but whatever it was, Stiles needed it. 

He needed as much as Derek could give him, it was just starting to really piss him off that he didn't know why. Why would his stupid brain want to be near Derek? Sure he was hot and before the whole evil demon squatting in his soul thing, being near Derek meant eye-fucking him and ogling his chest when he stripped off his shirt every five minutes. That wasn't part of it anymore, it was still there, god the man had abs that were just nghhh. Point is this wasn't that and it was irritating him. He lashed out at his best friend, he fought with his dad, argued with his friends, seemed to be riding some sort of hormone high, but put him within five feet of Derek and he turned into a purring pussy cat. No seriously, last week Derek made him purr, and not in a sexy way, no it was a cuddle. One mother freaking cuddle had him purring like a kitty and begging to be petted. Stiles is a pretty tactile person, always has been. It came from his mom's side, dad was so not a cuddler, but give Stiles a warm body to snuggle up against and he was unconscious in a minute. That's what this was like, it was reminding him of mom. Of picnics in the preserve (that he'd totally forgotten about) dappled sunlight in a hallway (not his own) puppies dancing at his feet (his dad's allergic so they've never had any pets), it was a million different feelings and ghosting sensations that are his but somehow aren't as well. He almost thinks they belong to the demon, that maybe it left bits of itself behind, like lint in a dryer, maybe all these memories where just fluffy little balls of pink tinged lint. 

Only, every now and then, he would see her smile. That bright beautiful smile that made her eyes sparkle and tore his breath away. He would wake up panting in the night with an image of his mother swinging him around, his pudgy little arms whipping in the wind. He would watch himself, no more than a toddler leap into the arms of a boy, with dark hair and green eyes, expecting to be caught. The images were starting to gain momentum, spearing fractals of memory that he couldn't ignore anymore. His gut was telling him to run, to leap into those arms, to expect him to catch him. Not that he knew who 'he' was exactly. The images never progressed any further than the boy at twelve maybe thirteen. 

He was afraid to tell anyone, he didn't want them to worry he was possessed again or losing it even. It didn't feel like that. He wasn't sleepwalking through life, unable to tell what was real and what wasn't. They felt real and he was going to do everything he could to prove it one way or the other. So he started small, dragging down the boxes from the attic (afraid to sit in that dark empty space alone) and slowly made his way through the photo albums his mother left behind. 

Mom photographed everything, documented every step of his life for as long as she could. They didn't have many photos from after she passed, only the few that Melissa or Scott had made them take at Christmases and birthdays. These were things he hadn't looked at in years. His dad had packed them all away and tried to forget, they both had. Looking through them now it was like slicing through his veins, he could feel his heartbeat pounding as he stared at his mother's face, her brown eyes staring back at him with a twinkle he still missed. There were hundreds of them, some in albums, some not. Some had blurry fingertips covering faces and missing heads, but there were plenty of the other kind too. His mom and dad at some cheesy diner, her tummy fat and round. Pushing back tears he flipped forwards a few years, just enough so that his arms were pudgy and his cheeks looked like a chipmunks. He was always a toddler in his dreams, he waddled around a massive garden in a Batman t-shirt and a diaper. He was two he thinks, that was the earliest memory he had. 

There's a photo stuck between others that he gently pulls out, sweating a little at the sight. He's midstep, the fat on his legs wobbling at the impact of foot on grass, a bright smile overtaking his face and just out of view, half bent towards him is a boy with outstretched arms. There's some sort of visceral reaction pounding through his body spiking his adrenaline. Those arms caught him, they always catch him. He can feel them wrapping around him, holding him tight. With sweat slicked fingers he paws through the other photos, this set don't have a lot of heads or faces, not much to go on really, but they're sparking recognition in his brain. He can feel the dissonance ricochet off his body, like he's here and there at the same time. Those hands love him, care for him. 

At the back of the bundle is a close up shot of him being cuddled against someone's chest. Their jawline just visible above Stiles' head and he knows. He remembers everything, the whispered words of love and comfort against his skin. The way those arms sheltered him from the cold and made his giggle like mad. He remembers watching his mom with wide eyes as she made the rain fall so they could dance. She would call the wind to them and whip it through his hair calling him drogoi. She would sit him in the middle of the puppies, their tails waggling as she told him in a firm voice to stay, to be good, to play with the pups. As he got older the puppies did too, they grew larger and larger, their forms shifting and changing from day to day. She said it taught them control, that putting him with the pups made them strong. That he was safe with them, would always belong to them just as he belonged to her, that he was pack. He could see their faces, knew Cora's as well as his own, could pick her out of a crowd as human or wolf. He knew each of them, held their scent on his skin and their hopes in his chest. He was theirs. 

He was on his feet faster than thought, rushing through the hallway desperate to escape. He had to get away, he needed to be safe. He found himself outside the loft by instinct more than intent. He had veered towards the house at first before his feet moved him in the other direction, some part of his mind focused enough to know that going there would be a mistake. He was panting and dragging in air by the time the doors opened and Derek stared down at him. Without meaning to he was hurling himself into those strong arms, expecting them to catch him. And just like always they did. They wrapped around him and made him feel whole, but they couldn't stop the sobs that racked his body, the heartbreak that ran under his skin and seeped out his pores. Derek carefully manoeuvred him onto the couch, shoving a blanket over him and sighing dramatically when Stiles shrugged it off and snuggled against Derek's chest. Some part of his mind told him they weren't alone, that there was a witness hovering by the stairs but that didn't seem to matter. Nothing mattered but the pain and the sobs and the tears. 

The words stumbled out of him, stalled and half garbled, "They're dead. Everyone's dead Derek."  
The body under him tensed up, the muscles turning rigid as Derek muttered, "That's not your fault Stiles, what the nogitsune did wasn't your fault."  
He was shaking his head so hard he was afraid his brains would leak out, but Derek didn't get it, he didn't care about any of that, those where the wrong people. "Not them Der, everyone, they died and I didn't remember and how could I not remember them? How could I forget that? How could she make me forget that? My family's dead Derek, our family's dead."  
He felt the air whoosh out of Derek's lungs like he's just been hit with a jackhammer and a growl echoed from the staircase, but that was familiar. It made something settle inside him, like there was something left besides smoke and ash. There was maybe more. 

Derek pulled him closer, dragging Stiles onto his lap so he could bury his face in his neck, brushing his nose against the soft skin there. A warm body pressed up against his back, another face lunging towards his exposed jugular, but that was ok too. He felt cocooned by them as all three of them sobbed together, their tears mingling and dripping onto Stiles' skin, marking him as theirs. 

When he wakes up snuggled against Derek's chest with Peter's arms wrapped around his legs he feels better than he has in weeks, better than he's felt in years really. That part of himself that he'd never realised was even missing was whole again. Derek huffed into his hair, his breath brushing across Stiles' jaw as he smiled. Peter crawled his way up his body, pausing to whisper "Welcome home little brother" before he nipped at Stiles' jaw and left the apartment. Alone now, Derek hugged him tighter, pressing as close to Stiles as he could, so close that Stiles could feel his heart beating in time with his own. He was home.


End file.
